


Stones

by Xangonne



Category: Call of Cthulhu: Path of Perdition (Web Series), Internet Remix, Rolling with Remix: Masks of Nyarlathotep (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of PTSD, Post Juju House, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29285187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xangonne/pseuds/Xangonne
Summary: “After all, when a stone is dropped into a pond, the water continues quivering even after the stone has sunk to the bottom.”― Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a GeishaorThe weight that comes with never being able to understand.
Relationships: Mason Allen & James O'Connel
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Stones

* * *

The four faces of the carved wooden mask stared back at James, unblinking and unrelenting.

He could not-- had not-- been able to sleep. So he sat in the stiff armchair of his room at the Broadway Central, and he considered the Mask. He considered its grotesque expressions. He considered the splintering reeds and ragged feathers of its collar, and its dark, porous wood. He had hidden it away in the days following the police raid. With Kit and Sunil gone, he found that he did not trust the others with the artefact. The wood had not moved, but in the instant the wicker had tightened around Mason's face, he could have sworn that the four hideous countenances of the Mask had twisted their lips and many mouths into vicious grins.

James stared at the Mask, meeting each set of eyes in turn. It leered back at him.

Sybil had tried. Of course she had tried. Despite seeing what had happened to Mason, she had attempted to lay hands on the Mask in the dead of the night. When she thought he was asleep. When he was out of the way again.

Despite himself, he tightened his hold on the grip of his M1911. Somewhere in the grain of the wood he could still hear the frantic beating of the drums, and he could still see the orgiastic fervor of the crowd in the basement; the limbs and bodies that twisted and undulated as the rhythm accelerated to a fever-pitch. James squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and he downed the last of his whiskey-- emptying the lukewarm glass he had been nursing for the past five hours.

At least Sybil had finally left. She had gone out with Mason, chirping something about getting food and fresh air after being cooped up in the hotel for days. The snowstorm that enveloped the city seemed poetic, in that sense. It had trapped them there at the beginning of the year, and now that the business with the cult was over, the drifts once more piled high-- blanketing the streets and pavement, then rising to impassable heights. They had barely managed to make it to Grand Central in order to see Kit, Sunil, and Erin off to Boston before the weather had struck once more. It was fitting. What little light the gray skies provided slanted through the curtains and was absorbed by the darkness of the room.

Although, even with Sybil gone, he could not let himself take his eyes off the Mask.

There was a knock at the door, and James smoothly levelled his pistol at it. He did so without fear, and without thought; and he waited.

There was a silence, and another knock at the door-- more hesitantly this time. "Uh, hey... Atticus?"

James exhaled at the sound of Mason's voice. "Come in, Mason."

"It's Malcolm, remember?"

James could barely muster the energy to roll his eyes as Mason opened the door and stepped into the room. The lights from the hallway were impossibly bright. "I'm pretty sure we can drop the fake names now, Malcolm."

"You can never be too saf-- what the fuck, James?" Mason's voice pitched into a high whisper as he stared at the pistol in James's hand.

James looked down at the gun, as though he were seeing it for the first time. He lowered it slowly, but he did not put it down. Mason eyed it from his spot at the door, and then followed James's gaze to the Mask on the bed. He let the door swing shut behind him, and the room fell once more into shadow. James watched Mason's every move like a predator, gauging the distance between him and the bed-- him and the Mask.

"I'm not interested in it," Mason said flatly.

"Yeah?" James cautiously set the gun down on the arm of the chair and reached for his flask. He tipped the last of the liquor into his glass and took a swig.

Mason furrowed his brow. "Yeah." He cautiously made his way around the bed to sit on the other empty chair. "Yeah no, I'm. Trust me. I don't wanna touch that thing ever again."

James exhaled a breath that he did not know he was holding. "Where's Sybil?"

"She's down at the bar making a social call with some gal she was friends with back in the day, something about wanting to catch up before we end up in Australia."

James snorted. "Yeah. Sounds about right."

The bitterness in James's voice was not lost on Mason, but he didn't know how to respond to it. On some level, it felt like he would be intruding if he were to acknowledge it; and on the other hand it seemed disingenuous to not respond. Either way, the stench of alcohol filled the room, thick in the still air. It seemed as though James had replaced sleeping with drinking-- replaced one form of oblivion with another.

Mason laced his fingers together and looked at the floor. "How've you been holdin' up?"

James stilled, as though he were expecting anything but that. He swirled the liquor around in his glass, but then set it down. He did not answer.

Mason nodded in response. "Yeah. That's how I figured."

A silence filled the room. Mason waited, doing his best to still his hammering heart. James looked into the emptiness of the room, the emptiness of the Mask.

"Mason, why are you here?"

Mason looked over, confused. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. I haven't seen much of you since we saw Kit and Sunil off, and Sybil hasn't really been answering me when I ask her."

"Did she put you up to this?"

"What? No!" Mason sighed. "No, she didn't. If anything, she told me that I should just leave you alone."

"You probably should have taken her advice." James looked away, his face stiff and tired.

Mason's eyes narrowed. "Hey, fuck you James."

James turned to look at him, as though he only just registered Mason's words. "Excuse me?"

"Nah, you heard me the first time. Fuck you, O'Connel." There was no malice in Mason's voice. If anything, he was speaking casually-- almost conversationally. "You're my friend too, so fuckin-- excuse me for trying to give a shit. You're not the only person who exists here, James. You're not exactly alone in all this."

A strained smile spread across James's face. "The fuck I'm not. You really want to do this? You really want to pretend you can come in here and play like you get what's going on?"

Before he knew it, Mason found himself on his feet, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. James looked at him laconically-- not even bothering to make a move in defense or retaliation. Instead, he just apathetically regarded Mason with dull eyes. Mason took a breath, counted to three, and sat back down in his chair. "I don't think I'm the person you're angry at," Mason finally said after a moment.

"No. You're not."

The realization was small and sudden, but it grew the longer that it stayed with James. Before long, it seemed like it was the only thing taking up space in his mind-- pressing against the inside of his skull as though it would make him shatter. The dull heat of his anger, the anger he had been trying to douse in booze, flared and burned him from the inside out. James squeezed his eyes shut. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't talk about it. Not to Mason. Not to anyone, really; but especially not now. Not like this. But he could... he could try to understand.

"Why'd you go back?" James asked.

"To the well, you mean?"

"Yeah. I know you, Sybil, and Sunil saw something down there. So why did you agree to go back?"

"I needed to know it was dead," Mason said simply. "I needed to know it was dead, and I regretted not going down there with you in the first place."

James took a sip of his drink, then offered the glass to Mason. He took it, and then downed the rest of it.

"Mason, why did you put it on?"

Mason looked up. James's face was blank, neutral even.

"I'm gonna be level with you, James. I don't know if I can explain it."

"Try."

Mason sucked in a breath. "Sure. Yeah. I'll try." He did his best to settle into a comfortable position.

* * *

"I guess part of it was just wanting to know. With so much happening, all the time, it seemed stupid to let a piece of evidence just go unexplored like that. I know we found the cash box. We exonerated Hilton. We even found Jackson's killers. But this entire time, there's always been something more at play, you know? Always something else. You heard Jackson on the phone. He was scared, and Jackson is never scared. I don't think that some cultists would be enough to rattle him like that."

"So knowing that... and knowing what happened in Peru. I don't know. I didn't know how else I could be useful, you know?" Mason leaned back in his chair. His fingers found the pair of dice that he kept in his pockets, and he absently rolled one between his knuckles. "It wasn't like the Golden Mask though. It didn't have the same pull. I know that Peter ended up with issues, with it taking over and worming its way into his head, but this seemed entirely different."

"Listen, I'm not like you, James. I'm not like you, and I'm not like Kit, and I'm not like Sunil. Sometimes, it feels like I don't really have all too much going for me. I'm a mediocre shot. I can't fix people. I'm not really good when it comes to research and stuff like that. So I figured I could at least take this opportunity to find something out and be useful."

Mason exhaled, the images still dancing before his eyes. At the corners of his vision, the dark edges of the room seemed as though they were painted in tar-- in primordial, festering muck. The pulsing of the organs, of the eyes, still resonated within him like an uncanny orchestra.

James studied Mason. The stupor in which he had found himself stranded faded away, and now he watched the other man with a quiet intensity that belied his own thoughts and fears about the situation. Mason was always honest, painfully honest. Even when Mason lied, he carried his heart and emotions on his sleeve. He was always quick to joke, and quick to jump to a different subject once the uncomfortable crept in. But here and now, he was sincere.

James spoke up, finally. "What was it like?"

Mason shuddered involuntarily. "It wasn't like anything I've ever seen before, and I've seen some pretty fucked up shit." He ran his fingers along the edges of a die. "It wasn't like the Dreaming, back in New Mexico. It wasn't like seeing... Him. It was like... it was like... It was like seeing something that I was never meant to see. Something impossible."

James slowly got up, leaving his pistol on the arm of the chair, and walked to the balcony door. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, and looked back to Mason. "I need a smoke."

"Yeah, that sounds real nice right about now." Mason followed James to the balcony and they both stepped outside into the bitter cold.

* * *

The sun was already falling below the horizon, and the tall buildings of the city served to cast everything into a darkness that arrived earlier than it should have. It was snowing, slightly. Big, fat flakes drifted down in the still air and settled on every possible surface. On the streets below, the occasional car struggled through the accumulated snow; their orange headlights illuminating the snowfall like swirling sparks or cinders. James lit his cigarette, then passed a smoke and his lighter to Mason; who thankfully took them. James leaned on the iron railing of the balcony and looked over the city-- the dimming sky and swirling snow slowly becoming brighter as the lights of the city flicked on one by one. Here and there, newer neon signs lit up-- casting the snow and ice in vivid colours.

Mason lit up his own cigarette and settled in beside James, shoulder to shoulder because of the cold. He folded his arms tight against his chest and stuck his hands under his armpits, but the temperature didn't seem to bother James as much.

"L.A. ruin your cold tolerance?"

Mason laughed, his breath puffing out into the still air. "Yeah, somethin’ like that. Trust me, I may have grown up here, but I sure as shit don't miss the winters." He took a long drag off of his cigarette. "Slogging through the nasty slush, and having my heating out probably half the time, and always dealing with wet, freezing socks? No thanks. I'll stick to Hollywood any day of the year, now."

Something that almost could have been a smile flitted across James's face, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. He flicked some ash off into the frigid air. Mason waited, feeling that James was on the verge of speaking, but just needed to find the right words in order to do so.

"You, and Sybil, and Sunil," James finally started, leaning heavily on the railing. "The three of you aren't like me. The three of you don't carry that shit around with you all the time. So why go looking for it?"

"I don't know about the other two, but I definitely don't go lookin’ for it. But when it comes up, what am I supposed to do? Let them go in alone?" Mason shivered. "No, fuck that. I've had too many things taken away from me to just stand back and let things happen without trying to do something, ok?"

Mason's voice was sharp and clipped. James realized that he should not have been surprised at the venom in Mason's voice, but it still took him off-guard nonetheless. Despite the fact that this was the man who promised to carve a name on each one of his bullets, Mason still seemed very young. Very naive. Maybe that was his first mistake-- looking at this young, blond man, and forgetting that this was the same kid who came face to face with some horror in Peru and lived to tell the tale. The same kid who tried to be a big damn hero on board the California Limited, and tried to spare everyone else a firefight at the risk of his own life. The same kid who would not rest after Jackson's death, the same kid who doggedly pursued leads up and down the city and watched everyone's backs like their lives depended on it. Which they did.

James felt the lit end of his cigarette burn against his fingertips. He let it burn there for a moment before stubbing it out in an ashtray. He flexed the fingers of his bandaged hand. "You were right, Mason. You're not the person I'm angry with, and you're not the person I want answers from."

"Yeah, I figured."

The tense silence that they had been mired in before mellowed out into something more companionable and easy. Mason turned around so that his back was against the railing. He looked up to the sky, and let the snow hit his face-- each flake a tiny pin-prick of cold against his skin, a tiny pin-prick reminder of reality.

Despite the ease of the tension in the air, James still leaned on the balcony-- as though bent beneath a weight on his shoulders. For the first time in days, the lack of sleep and his constant vigilance began to catch up with him. He was tired. He was so, very, exceptionally tired. He pushed his hair out of his face and scrubbed at his eyes roughly. Mason was kind enough to avert his eyes, and pretend not to notice. After a few minutes, Mason stubbed out his own cigarette in the ashtray and put a warm hand on James's shoulder. He let it rest there for a moment, before moving to head back in.

James took a moment, allowing himself for the first time since the police raid to walk slowly through the forest of his memories; a forest that he barely himself understood. The cold muffled all sound, and all thought-- leaving him there, struggling to surface from the depths. Clawing his way to a waterline that moved farther and farther away from him with each stone that settled against the bottom. James reached for the surface, thoughts and memories rising around him like shining bubbles; rising past him in their own rush to reach the chill air.

Mason waited, holding the door open; until James was ready to go back inside.


End file.
